We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheets nor in shrouds we bound him, Few and short were the prayers we said, But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead, commemorates, are subjects too well known to require from us any circum. stantial detail. They stand high on the roll of national distinction and achievements. Their importance and their renown have both been warmly recognized by the celebrations and the reverence of the public in general. The illustrious commander in particular, who fell a victim in the contest, lies entombed in the recollections of his generous countrymen, and his memory, no doubt, will descend with undiminished lustre for the admiration and the example of ages to come. Lieutenant General Sir John Moore, was son to the celebrated Dr. Moore of Glasgow, and was born there in the month of November 1761. He attached himself early to the profession of arms, and the whole course of his superior distinguished career, showed how happy he had been in the choice which he had made. In the active discharge of his Military duty, he visited the West Indies, Corsica, Holland, Ireland. and Egypt, and when the expedition to Spain was first meditated, his extensive and very eminent services recommended him as the fittest person to command in the undertaking. Here it was, on the 16th of June 1808, while engaged at Corrunna, and with victory hovering around his standard, that he fell by a shot from the enemy's batteries. With a bravery worthy the most romantic heroism, he sustained his hard but honourable fate, and shortly after, with We thought as we hallow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread on his head, Lightly they'll talk of the Spirit that's gone, But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on, But half our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring, out a struggle, he breathed his last, having been previously assured of the defeat of the French, and expressing his great happiness at the advantage which his men had so gallantly obtained. An occurrence so solemn, so mournful, and so eventful, the very recital of which thrills the soul with the most varied emotions, was a theme in every view highly respectable, and worthy to awaken the feelings and song of the bard. The tribute of poetical celebration and applause has ever been courted by men of eminence in every department, but the illustrious in war have always preferred particular claims to the enviable distinction, and to them, accordingly, in all ages, it has been most liberally expressed. In no unmeaning or trifling references however, which too frequently pervade productions of a similar kind, does the piece before us in the least indulge. It is dedicated solely to that concluding, but painful scene which finishes for ever all the active duties of the living to the dead. With a tenderness and simplicity properly suited to the occasion, it describes the time and manner of entombment, while the sensations and the fears are pathetically unfolded, which occupied the minds of the sorrowful attendants, "as they bitterly thought on the morrow." Nor can we forbear remarking how happily and how energetically the author concludes. With impressions solemnized by the importance of the moment, when the earth was Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory, IV. THOU ART NOT FALSE. Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, The wholly false the heart despises, to receive and for ever conceal the sacred remains of the illustrious Chief, our poet movingly expresses the sorrow of the troops, as displayed even in the very act of consignment, "Slowly and sadly they laid him down." He adverts in a highly descriptive strain, to the martial state in which the hero was buried, "From the field of his fame fresh and gory," and by a single but comprehensively significant line, he describes him as "Left all alone in his glory." But she who not a thought disguises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow We scarce our fancy can forgive, What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warmed? Sincere, but swift in sad transition, As if a dream alone had charmed? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming! V. TWINE WEEL THE PLAIDEN Oh! I hae lost my silken snood, That tied my hair sae yellow; I've gi'en my heart to the lad I loo'd, Then twine it weel, my bonny dow, And twine it weel, the plaiden; The lassie lost her silken snood In pu'ing of the bracken. He prais'd my een sae bonny blue, And syne he prie'd my bonny mou', Then twine it weel, &c. But he has left the lass he loo'd, Then twine it weel, &c. VI. SONG TO MARGARET. In summer when nature her mantle displays, How pleasant, at evening, on Cartha's green banks, |